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THE STORY OF ROSINA 
ETC. 



POEMS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 



THE BALLAD OF BEAU BROCADE, and other Poems 
of the XYIIIth Century. With fifty Illustrations by 
Hugh Thomson. 121110. Cloth, #2.00. 

PROVERBS IX PORCELAIN. With twenty-five Illustra- 
tions by Bernard Partridge. Svo. Cloth, $2.00. 

POEMS. New revised and complete edition from new plates, 
with portrait etched from life by Wm. Strang, and seven 
full-page etchings by An. Lai.ai/.k. 2 vols., 161110. The 
first edition will be limited as follows, the numbers printed 
being for both England and America : 

[St. 30 conies on Japan paper, with etchings ill two states, 
and all signed l>\ the artist. $20.00 net. 

2d. 50 copies on Japan paper, etchings with remarque. 
$15 00 net. 

3d. 100 copies on Holland paper ; proof impressions of the 
etchings. #10.00 ni t 

4th. 500 copies on deckel edge paper. Etchings on Whatman 
paper $5.00 net. 

THE SUN DIAL, with Illustration in photogravure and pen 
and ink by Geo. Wharton Edwards, Quarto cloth, S7.50. 

For Dobson s Prose Work see our Catalogue. 



NEW YORK 
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 




darofiy 



oihe.r c Yfrjes 

Austin Wop fori 

SCrustratecT 




3)odd, dIBead 
ana 

(join pan 1/ 









u> 



ob 



vV A' 



Cui YRIGHT, 1895 
BY 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 



All rights reserz'ed 



Transfer 

Engineer School LibyJ 
Aug. 12,: 931 



THE CAXTUN PRESS 

NEW YOKK 




"edication. 




WndtwouCd car modkrn maids iox£iy?UM> 
Jfwafc/i, ancfcant Conjecture. ' vW 

mdu6i'ousta(e?- an Jfym Pfa\)?- 5^S^ 
^A pemmistc fecture?- ^ 



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\f6ncur not. ©af \fiis t cfii/cf, cf&noar; 

^u (ike tfiin^ j sweet and seem fy, JSp%% 
Qfd-fash'iQned flowers, oCdsHafieshlfiX . , 

J\a(d fPc6\n ffray" (extreme '/$•» J|k§> 









. fa fragrant cedar- presses ; . ffi ' 
J)i tumaoud-cormrs zoarm and fnyliM 
Jn (awn and lilac dresses; 



cVou stdf can read ,ct ami ratr, 

tfo youftflytfJear, fcfedi'caie ' 
2>ftis*Story of M>sina" 





(T<~t- 



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'■ "I ; • . 



DEDICATION 

TO * # * 

lllhil would our modern maids to-day? 

1 watch, and can't conjecture: 
A dubious Tale?— an Ibsen Play?— 

A pessimistic Lecture ? — 

/ know not. But this, Child, 1 know : 

You like things sued and seemly ; 
Old-fashioned flowers, old shapes in Bow t 

" Auld Robin Gray" (extremely); 

You — with my "Dorothy" — delight 

In fragrant cedar-presses ; 
In iciudoiL'-coi ners warm and brh'hl, 

/// lawn, and lilac dresses ; 

You still can read, at any rate, 
Charles Lamb and " Evelina " : — ■ 

To You, My Dear, I dedicate 
This " Story of Kosina." 




Were it not for the recoil ction of certain incon- 
venient but salutary epigrams, and more parti- 
cularly Popes couplet about the pictures that " for 
the page atone," / might perhaps be disposed to 
cheat myself with the belief that the zvelcome which 
greeted " The Ballad of Beau Brocade " was not, 
in the main, attributable to the designs of an 
Artist whose hand is never so happy as when it 
works in the half-light of a bygone tune. But 
if I cannot lay any such flattering unction to my 
amour-propre, / may at least reflect with satis- 
faction that " The Story of Rosina " is equally 
fortunate in its illustrator. In spite of many 



xii Preface 

obstacles, Mr. Hugh Thomson has again afforded 
me the invaluable aid of his fertile fancy; and I 
am therefore fully warranted in hoping that this 
further volume of reprinted verses may achieve 
a success equal, if not superior, to that of its 
predecessor. 

Austin Dobson. 

September 1895. 




The Story of Rosina . 




PAGE 
I 


Une Marquise 


• • • • 


. 19 


An Autumn Idyll 


• 


• 31 


A Garden Idyll . 

A Dialogue from Plato 


• * • • 


• 43 

• 53 


Dorothy 
Pot Pourri . 


» • • • 


• 59 
. . 65 


The Sundial. 


• • 


7i 


Cupid's Alley 


> * < • 


• 79 


Love in Winter . 


* • • 4 


• s 7 


The Cure's Progress . 


• • • • 


• 9i 


At the Convent Gate 


■ * a 


• 97 


The Misogynist . 


• • • • 


■ 103 


A Virtuoso . 


* • • • 


. in 


Notes 




I IQ 



c$b& 



^ o ~ 



HVM 



liiiiiii 



wJQiwii 









"Dorothy" 

Heading to Preface 

I reading to ( Contents . 

I reading to Lisl of Illustrations . 

"The Scene" .... 

I reading to poem 

" Watching the suspended cherries " 

" Besought her leave" 

" The unknown comer " 

"On his knees" .... 

" By the door she lingers" . 

"Ah, the poor child!" 

" Thick as bees " ... 

I leading to poem 

" Your last poet on his knees" . 

"Jove, what a day ! " . 

I leading to poem 



■ 


• • 


Front! 


yVV, 

PARE 


• 


• • 


• 


vii 




• • 


• • 


i\ 




■ * 


• 


xi 




1 • 


To face 


i ' 




• (• 


• 


i 




• 


To l<icr 


2 « 




• 


> i 


6 




• 


>? 


8 




• 


> i 


IO | 




• 


»» 


1 ! 




• 


»J 


1 1 




• 


»» 


lO 




• 


. . 


19 




1 


To face 


20 




■ 


■> ■> 


3' 




1 


. 


31 



XVI 



List of Illustrations 



4 "At her feet" 

. a Peered at the beehives curiously" 

Heading to poem .... 

y " Some dream of harp-prest bosoms " 

" My dear and deprecating mother" . 

" You're reading Greek ? " . 

Heading to poem .... 

v "The sequel's scarce essential " . 
v " Preferred ' Clarissa' to a gossip's word" 

Heading to poem .... 

" Twice-told tales" .... 

" The vanished days" . . . . 

Heading to poem . . • • 

" When Dash was smitten" • • 

Hide and Seek 

Heading to poem . . • ■ 

" Read and re-read " .... 

" High and low, and young and old " . 

Heading to poem .... 

v " From off his seat shall tumble " . 
' "Bright-eyed Bella" .... 

Heading to poem .... 

" Waiting in the snow "... 
1 "Monsieur the Cur6". 

Heading to poem .... 





I'ACiK 


. . 7 o face 


36 


• « » > 


43 


• . . 


43 


. . To face 


46 


• • »» 


48 


• • i» 


53 


• . • » 


53 


. . To face 


54 


• • »» 


59 


.... 


59 


• To face 


60 


• • »> 


65 


. 


65 


• . To face 


66 


• • •>"> 


67 


• . . . 


7i 


. . To face 


74 


• • »> 


79 


.... 


79 


. . To face 


82 


* • »> 


87 


• % ■ 


87 


* , To face 


88 


• « it 


9i 


t ■ • * 


91 



List of Illustrations 



xvu 



11 Strive to lure anew " f 

Heading to poem , „ 

' " His air was always woe- begone w 
Heading to poem 
"We met him last, grown stout ,: 
A Virtuoso * , , , 

Heading to poem , 





PAGK 


To face 


97 




97 


, To face 


103 




103 


< To face 


106 


' M 


in 


» 1 i 


FIT 



THE STORY OF ROSINA 




. vA<? Jcenc 




AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF 



FRANCOIS BOUCHER 



" On ne badi?ie pas avec V amour" 



T 



&j 



HE scene, a wood. A shepherd tip-toe creeping 

Carries a basket, whence a billet peeps, 
To lay beside a silk-clad Oread sleeping 

Under an urn ; yet not so sound she sleeps 
But that she plainly sees his graceful act ; 
" He thinks she thinks he thinks she sleeps," in fact. 

A 



2 The Story of Rosin a 

( )ne hardly needs the " Feint par Francois Boucher. 

All the sham life comes back again, — one sees 
Alcoves, Ruelles, the Lever, and the Coucher, 

Patches and Ruffles, Roues and Marquises ; 
The little great, the infinite small thing 
That ruled the hour when Louis Quinze was king. 



For these were yet the days of halcyon weather, — - 
A " Martin's summer," when the nation swam, 

Aimless and easy as a wayward feather, 
Down the full tide of jest and epigram ; — 

A careless time, when France's bluest blood 

Beat to the tune of " After us the flood." 



Plain Roland still was placidly " inspecting," 
Not now Camille had stirred the Cafe Foy , 

Marat was young, and Guillotin dissecting, 
Corday unborn, and Lamballe in Savoie ; 



■ 




7'viitiRfny ihc Juspe ncfcd CfterriQS* 



The Story of Rosina 

No faubourg yet had heard the Tocsin ring :— 
This was the summer— when Grasshoppers sing. 



And far afield were sun-baked savage creatures, 
Female and male, that tilled the earth, and wrung 

Want from the soil ;— lean things with livid features, 
Shape of bent man, and voice that never sung : 

These were the Ants, for yet to Jacques Bonhomme 

Tumbrils were not, nor any sound of drum. 



But Boucher was a Grasshopper, and painted,— 
Rose-water Raphael,— *« couleur de rose, 

The crowned Caprice, whose sceptre, nowise sainted, 
Swayed the light realm of ballets and bon-mots ;— 

Ruled the dim boudoir's demi-jour, or drove 

Pink-ribboned flocks through some pink-flowered 
grove. 



4 The Story of Rosina 

A laughing Dame, who sailed a laughing cargo 
Of flippant loves along the Fleuve die Tetidre 

Whose greatest grace was jupes a la Camargo, 
Whose gentlest merit gentiment se rendre ; — 

Queen of the rouge-cheeked Hours, whose footsteps 
fell 

To Rameau's notes, in dances by Gardel ; — 

Her Boucher served, till Nature's self betraying, 
As Wordsworth sings, the heart that loved her not, 

Made of his work a land of languid Maying, 
Filled with false gods and muses misbegot ; — 

A Versailles Eden of cosmetic youth, 

Wherein most things went naked, save the Truth. 

Once, only once,— perhaps the last night's revels 
Palled in the after-taste, — our Boucher sighed 

For that first beauty, falsely named the Devil's, 
Young-lipped, unlessoned, joyous, and clear-eyed ; 



The Story of Rosina 

Flung down his palette like a weary man, 

And sauntered slowly through the Rue Sainte-Anne. 



Wherefore, we know not ; but, at times, far nearer 
Things common come, and lineaments half-seen 

Grow in a moment magically clearer ; — 

Perhaps, as he walked, the grass he called "too 
green " 

Rose and rebuked him, or the earth " ill-lighted " 

Silently smote him with the charms he slighted. 



But, as he walked, he tired of god and goddess, 
Nymphs that deny, and shepherds that appeal ; 

Stale seemed the trick of kerchief and of bodice, 
Folds that confess, and flutters that reveal ;. 

Then as he grew more sad and disenchanted, 

Forthwith he spied the very thing he wanted. 



6 The Story of Rosina 

So, in the Louvre, the passer-by might spy some 
Arch-looking head, with half-evasive air, 

Start from behind the fruitage of Van Huysum, 
Grape-bunch and melon, nectarine and pear : — 

1 1 ere 'twas no Venus of Batavian city, 

But a French girl, young, piquante, bright, and pretty 



Graceful she was, as some slim marsh-flower shaken 
Among the sallows, in the breezy Spring ; 

Blithe as the first blithe song of birds that waken, 
Fresh as a fresh young pear-tree blossoming; 

Black was her hair as any blackbird's feather; 

Just for her mouth, two rose-buds grew together. 



Sloes were her eyes ; but her soft cheeks were peaches, 
Hued like an Autumn pippin, where the red 

Seems to have burned right through the skin, and reaches 
E'en to the core ; and if you spoke, it spread 




'fSiJOuyrct her Ifuv^ 



The Story of Rosin a 

Up till the blush had vanquished all the brown, 
And, like two birds, the sudden lids dropped down. 



As Boucher smiled, the bright black eyes ceased 
dancing, 

As Boucher spoke, the dainty red eclipse 
Filled all the face from cheek to brow, enhancing 

Half a shy smile that dawned around the lips. 
Then a shrill mother rose upon the view ; 
"Cerises, M'sieu ? A'osine, depechez-vous 1 " 



Deep in the fruit her hands Rosina buries, 
Soon in the scale the ruby bunches lay. 

The painter, watching the suspended cherries, 
Never had seen such little fingers play ; — 

As for the arm, no Hebe's could be rounder ; 

Low in his heart a whisper said " I've found her." 



8 The Story of Rosina 

" Woo first the mother, if you'd win the daughter ! " 
Boucher was charmed, and turned to Madame Mere, 

Almost with tears of suppliance besought her 
Leave to immortalize a face so fair ; 

Praised and cajoled so craftily that straightway 

Void Rosina, — standing at his gateway. 



Shy at the first, in time Rosina's laughter 
Rang through the studio as the girlish face 

Peeped from some painter's travesty, or after 
Showed like an Omphale in lion's case ; 

Gay as a thrush, that from the morning dew 

Pipes to the light its clear " Reveillez-vous" 



Just a mere child with sudden ebullitions, 
Flashes of fun, and little bursts of song, 

Petulant pains, and fleeting pale contritions, 
Mute little moods of misery and wrong ; 




^fie un&noton CornZT" 



The Story of Rosina 

Only a child, of Nature's rarest making, 

Wistful and sweet, — and with a heart for breaking ! 



Day after day the little loving creature 

Came and returned ; and still the Painter felt, 

Day after day, the old theatric Nature 

Fade from his sight, and like a shadow melt 

Paniers and Powder, Pastoral and Scene, 

Killed by the simple beauty of Rosine. 



As for the girl, she turned to her new being, — 
Came, as a bird that hears its fellow call ; 

Blessed, as the blind that blesses God for seeing: ; 
Grew, as a flower on which the sun-rays fall ; 

Loved if you will ; she never named it so : 

Love comes unseen, — we only see it go. 



io The Story of Rosina 

There is a figure among Boucher's sketches, 
Slim, — a child-face, the eyes as black as beads, 

Head set askance, and hand that shyly stretches 
Flowers to the passer, with a look that pleads. 

This was no other than Rosina surely ; — 

None Boucher knew could else have looked so purely 



But forth her Story, for I will not tarry, 

Whether he loved the little " nut-brown maid " ; 

H, of a truth, he counted this to carry 

Straight to the end, or just the whim obeyed, 

Nothing we know, but only that before 

More had been done, a finger tapped the door. 



Opened Rosina to the unknown comer. 

'Twas a young girl — " une pauvre filie" she said, 
" They had been growing poorer all the summer ; 

Father was lame, and mother lately dead ; 




On ZtVvT A nee J 



The Story of Rosina i i 

Bread was so dear, and, — oh ! but want was bitter, 
Would Monsieur pay to have her for a sitter ? 



Men called her pretty." Boucher looked a minute : 
Yes, she was pretty ; and her face beside 

Shamed her poor clothing by a something in it, — 
Grace, and a presence hard to be denied ; 

This was no common offer it was certain ; — 

" Allez, Rosina! sit behind the curtain." 



Meantime the Painter, with a mixed emotion, 
Drew and re-drew his ill-disguised Marquise, 

Passed in due time from praises to devotion ; 
Last when his sitter left him on his knees, 

Rose in a maze of passion and surprise, — 

Rose, and beheld Rosina's saddened eyes. 



12 The Story of Rosina 

■ 

Thrice-happy France, whose facile sons inherit 

Still in the old traditionary way, 
Power to enjoy — with yet a rarer merit, 

Power to forget ! Our Boucher rose, I say, 
With hand still prest to heart, with pulses throbbing, 
And blankly stared at poor Rosina sobbing 

" This was no model, APsieu, but a lady." 
Boucher was silent, for he knew it true. 

" Est-ce que vous Faimez ? " Never answer made he ! 
Ah, for the old love fighting with the new ! 

" Est-ce que vous faimez ? " sobbed Rosina's sorrow. 

"Eton!" murmured Boucher; "she will come to- 
morrow. " 

How like a hunter thou, O Time, dost harry 

Us, thine oppressed, and pleasured with the chase, 

Sparest to strike thy sorely-running quarry, 
Following not less with unrelenting face. 




J2i* tfte cfoor sFiq firmer: 



The Story of Rosina 13 

Time, if Love hunt, and Sorrow hunt, with thee, 
Woe to the Fawn ! There is no way to flee. 



Woe to Rosina ! By To-morrow stricken, 
Swift from her life the sun of gold declined. 

Nothing remained but those gray shades that thicken, 
Cloud and the cold, — the loneliness — the wind. 

Only a little by the door she lingers, — 

Waits, with wrung lip and interwoven fingers. 



No, not a sign. Already with the Painter 

Grace and the nymphs began recovered reign ; 

Truth was no more, and nature, waxing fainter, 
Paled to the old sick Artifice again. 

Seeing Rosina going out to die, 

How should he know that Fame had passed 
him by ? 



14 The Story of Rosina 

Going to die ! For who shall waste in sadness, 
Shorn of the sun, the very warmth and light, 

Miss the green welcome of the sweet earth's gladness, 
Lose the round life that only Love makes bright : 

There is no succour if these things are taken. 

None but Death loves the lips by Love forsaken. 

So, in a little, when those Two had parted, — 

Tired of himself, and weary as before, 
Boucher remembering, sick and sorry-hearted, 

Stayed for a moment by Rosina's door. 
"Ah, the poor child ! " the neighbours cry of her, 
" Morte, Al'sieu, morte 1 On dit, — des peines du 
coeur ! " 

Just for a second, say, the tidings shocked him, 
Say, in his eye a sudden tear-drop shone, — 

Just for a second a dull feeling mocked him 

With a vague sense of something priceless gone ; 







* c KFi,ifapoor c/wfcf r 



The Story of Rosina 15 

Then, — for at best 'twas but the empty type, 

The husk of man with which the days were ripe, — 



Then, he forgot her. But, for you that slew her, 
You, her own sister, that with airy ease, 

Just for a moment's fancy could undo her, 
Pass on your way. A little while, Marquise, 

Be the sky silent, be the sea serene ; 

A pleasant passage — a Sainte Guillotine ! 



As for Rosina, — for the quiet sleeper, 

Whether stone hides her, or the happy grass, 

If the sun quickens, if the dews beweep her, 
Laid in the Madeleine or Montparnasse, 

Nothing we know, — but that her heart is cold, 

Poor beating heart ! And so the story's told. 



UNE MARQUISE 



///M\ \ 



, iiti 




C/fivd-i, cls Dees 




A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE 

" Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeax me fo?it mourir 
d 1 amour. n — M oli ere 



A ; 



S you sit there at your ease, 

O Marquise ! 
And the men flock round your knees 



Thick as bees, 



*9 



20 Uue Marquise 

Mute at every word you utter, 
Servants to your least frill flutter, 

" Belle Marquise J '"— 
As you sit there growing prouder, 

And your ringed hands glance and go, 
And your fan's frou-Jrou sounds louder, 

And your " beaux yeux" flash and glow ;— 
Ah, you used them on the Painter, 

As you know, 
For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter, 

Bowing low, 
Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy 
That each sitter was not Circe, 

Or at least he told you so , — 
Growing proud, I say, and prouder 

To the crowd that come and go, 
Dainty Deity of Powder, 

Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau, 







%, 



Une Marquise 2 1 

As you sit where lustres strike you, 

Sure to please, 

Do we love you most or like you, 

" Belle Marquise I " 



11 

You are fair • O yes, we know it 

Well, Marquise: 

For he swore it, your last poet, 

On his knees; 

And he called all heaven to witness 

Of his ballad and its fitness, 

" Belle Marquise ! "- 

You were everything in ere 

(With exception of severe), — 

You were cruelle and rebelle. 

With the rest of rhymes as well ; 



22 Une Marquise 

You were " Reine," and "Mere d } Amour" ; 

You were " Venus a Cythcre " ; 
" Sappho wise e?i Pompadour" 

And " AHnerve en Parabere " ; 
You had every grace of heaven 

In your most angelic face, 
With the nameless finer leaven 

Lent of blood and courtly race ; 
And he added, too, in duty, 
Ninon's wit and Bouffiers' beauty; 
And La Valliere's yeux veloutes 

Followed these; 
And you liked it, when he said it 

(On his knees), 
And you kept it, and you read it, 

"Belle Marquise!" 



Une Marquise 23 



in 

Yet with us your toilet graces 

Fail to please, 
And the last of your last faces, 

And your mise , 
For we hold you just as real, 

"Belle Marquise /' 
As your Bergers and Berg}res t 
lies d? Amour and Batelieres ; 
As your pares, and your Versailles, 
Gardens, grottoes, and rocailles ; 
As your Naiads and your trees ; — 
Just as near the old ideal 

Calm and ease, 
As the Venus there, by Coustou, 

That a fan would make quite flighty. 



24 Une Marquise 

Is to her the gods were used to, — 
Is to grand Greek Aphrodite, 

Sprung from seas. 
You are just a porcelain trifle, 

" Belle Marquise!" 
Just a thing of puffs and patches, 
Made for madrigals and catches, 
Not for heart-wounds, but for scratches, 

O Marquise ! 
Just a pinky porcelain trifle, 

"Belle Marquise!" 
Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry, 
Quick at verbal point and parry, 
Clever, doubtless ; — but to marry, 

No, Marquise ! 



Une Marquise 25 



IV 

For your Cupid, you have clipped him, 

Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped 

him, 
And with chapeau-bras equipped him, 

"Belle Marquise f* 
Just to arm you through your wife-time, 
And the languors of your life-time, 

"Belle Marquise/" 
Say, to trim your toilet tapers, 
Or, — to twist your hair in papers, 
Or, — to wean you from the vapours ; — 

As for these, 
You are worth the love they give you, 
Till a fairer face outlive you, 

Or a younger grace shall please ; 



26 Une Marquise 

Till the coming of the crows' feet, 
And the backward turn of beaux' feet 

" Belle Marquise ! "— 
Till your frothed-out life's commotion 
Settles down to Ennui's ocean, 
Or a dainty sham devotion, 

"Belle Marquise!" 



No : we neither like nor love you, 
" Belle Marquise ! " 
Lesser lights we place above you, — 

Milder merits better please. 
We have passed from Philosophe-dom 

Into plainer modern days, — 
Grown contented in our oafdom, 

Giving grace not all the praise ; 



Une Marquise 27 

And, en partant) Arsinoe, — 

Without malice whatsoever, — 
We shall counsel to our Chloe 

To be rather good than clever ; 
P'or we find it hard to smother 

Just one little thought, Marquise ! 
Wittier perhaps than any other, — 
You were neither Wife nor Mother, 

" Belle Marquise ! " 



AN AUTUMN IDYLL 






feffl 






. , *'i'). , > ; ** ■ n '' l ; " : ' '-vf 



: 



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1 \iSwAc S^Oc^-^iS^ 












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"Sweet Themmes / runne softly \ till I end my song" 

Spenser 



Lawrence. Frank. Jack. 



Lawrence. 



T J ERE, where the beech-nuts drop among the 
grasses, 
Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore. 
Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses ; 
Here let us sit. We landed here before. 

3* 



32 An Autumn Idyll 

Frank. 

Jack's undecided. Say, formose puer % 
Bent in u dream above the "water wan," 

Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer, 

There by the pollards, where you see the swan? 



Jack. 

Hist ! That's a pike. Look — nose against the river, 
( •aunt as a wolf, the sly old privateer ! 

Kntei ;i gudgeon. Snap, — a gulp, a shiver; - 
Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here 



Frank (in the grass). 

[ove, what a day! Black Care upon the crupper 

Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun; 

Half of Theocritus, with a touch ofTupper, 

( hums in my head. The frenzy has begun ! 



An Autumn Idyll 3 3 



Lawrence. 

Sing to us then. Damcetas in a choker, 
Much out of tune, will edify the rooks. 



Frank. 

Sing you again. So musical a croaker 
Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks. 

Jack. 

Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is 
Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas ! am old. 

Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis; — 

Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told. 

Frank. 

Listen, O Thames ! His budding beard is riper, 

Say — by a week. Well, Lawrence, shall we sing? 

c 



3 | . h: . littiumi Idyll 

Law RBNCE. 

\ es, it you will, But ere l play the piper, 
I i-t him declare the pur he has to bring, 



| \ik. 

Hear thru, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted 
First in tlu v son:-,, a Pipe I will impart ; — 

rhis, my Beloved, marvellously mounted, 
Amber and foam, a miracle of art. 



I VWF ENCE. 

1 ordly the gift, Muse of many numbers, 
Grant me a soft alliterative sons ! 



Fran k. 



Me too, Musi 1 ' And when the Umpire slumbers, 
Sting him with gnats .i summer evening long. 



An A til nut n Idyll 

Law hi •■' i . 

Nol i" a ' ot, begarlanded ol spiders, 
Not where the brook traditionally "purls,"— 

No, in thi Row, supreme among the rid< i , 
Seek I the gem, the paragon "l girl i. 



I r v. i.. 

Not in the waste oi column and oi coping, 
Not in the sham and stu< i o ol a square, 
No, on -'i fune lawn, to the wat< » sloping, 
tnd ihe 1 honour, beautifully fair. 



Lawren< b. 

Dark haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited 
Ba< l: from the brows, imperially < urlcd ; 

( .'.iim as a grand, fai looking ( !ai y&tid, 
Holding the roof thai covers in a world. 



36 An Autumn Idyll 

Frank. 

Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging 
Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn ; 

Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing, 
Blithe as a bird new risen from the corn. 



Lawrence. 

Best is the song with the music interwoven : 
Mine's a musician, — musical at heart, — 

Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven, 
Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart. 



Frank. 

Best? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad, 
Queen at a pic-nic, leader of the glees, 

Not too divine to toss you up a salad, 

Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees. 



- 



■ 



■ 









^%, 










An Autumn Idyll 37 

Lawrence. 

Ah, when the thick night flares with dropping torches, 
Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, 

Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches, 
Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm. 



Frank. 

Better the twilight and the cheery chatting, — 
Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat, 

Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting, 
Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet. 



Lawrence. 

All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her 
Round with so delicate divinity, that men, 

Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger, 
Bend to the goddess, manifest again. 



38 An Autumn Idyll 

Frank. 

None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her, 
Cynics to boot. I know the children run, 

Seeing her come, for naught that I discover, 
Save that she brings the summer and the sun. 



Lawrence. 

Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly, 
Crowned with a sweet, continual control, 

Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely 
E'en to her own nobility of soul. 



Frank. 

Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure, 
Fearless in praising, faltering in blame : 

Simply devoted to other people's pleasure, — 

Jack's sister Florence, — now you know her name. 



An Autumn Idyll 39 

Lawrence. 

" Jack's sister Florence ! " Never, Francis, never. 
Jack, do you hear? Why, it was she I meant. 
She like the country ! Ah, she's far too clever — 



Frank. 
There you are wrong. I know her down in Kent. 



Lawrence. 

You'll get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare. 
Sorry to differ. Jack, — the word's with you. 



Frank. 

How is it, Umpire? Though the motto's threadbare, 
" Coclum, non animum " — is, I take it, true. 



40 An A u( mini Idyll 

Jack. 

" Souvent femme varie" as a rule, is truer; 

Flattered, I'm sure, -but both of you romance. 
Happy to further suit of either wooer, 

Merely observing you haven't got a chance. 



Lawrence. 
Yes. But the Pipe - 



Frank. 

The Tipe is what we care for, — 



Jack. 

Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain, 
Judgment Of mine were indiscreet, and therefore, 
Peace to you both. The Pipe I shall retain. 



A GARDEN IDYLL 



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4 '/ v 



A Lady. 



A Poet. 



s 



The Lady. 

I R Poet, ere you crossed the lawn 
(If it was wrong to watch you, pardon,) 

Behind this weeping birch withdrawn, 
I watched you saunter round the garden. 

I saw you bend beside the phlox, 

Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle, 

Review my well-ranged hollyhocks, 



Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle ; 

43 



44 A Garden Idyll 

You paused beneath the cherry-tree, 

Where my marauder thrush was singing, 
Peered at the bee-hives curiously, 

And narrowly escaped a stinging; 
And then — you see I watched — you passed 

Down the espalier walk that reaches 
Out to the western wall, and last 

Dropped on the seat before the peaches. 



What was your thought ? You waited long. 

Sublime or graceful, — grave, — satiric ? 
A Morris Greek-and-Gothic song? 

A tender Tennysonian lyric ? 
Tell me. That garden-seat shall be, 

So long as speech renown disperses, 
Illustrious as the spot where he — 

The gifted Blank — composed his verses. 



A Garden Idyll 45 

The Port. 

Madam, — whose uncensorious eye 

(irows gracious over certain pages, 
Wherein the Jester's maxims lie, 

It may be, thicker than the Sage's — 
I hear but to obey, and could 

Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you, 
Some verse as whimsical as Hood, — 

As gay as Praed,— should answer to you. 



But, though the common voice proclaims 

Our only serious vocation 
Confined to giving nothings names, 

And dreams a "local habitation"; 
Believe me there are tuneless days, 

When neither marble, brass, nor vellum, 
Would profit much by any lays 

That haunt the poet's cerebellum. 



46 A Garden Idyll 

More empty things, I fear, than rhymes, 

More idle things than songs, absorb it ; 
The " finely- frenzied" eye, at times, 

Reposes mildly in its orbit ; 
And -painful truth !— at times, to him, 

Whose jog-trot thought is nowise restive, 
'A primrose by a river's brim " 

Is absolutely unsuggestive. 



The fickle Muse ! As ladies will, 

She sometimes wearies of her wooer ; 
A goddess, yet a woman still, 

She flies the more that we pursue her ; 
In short, with worst as well as best, 

Five months in six, your hapless poet 
Is just as prosy as the rest, 

But cannot comfortably show it. 




cfomc cfream of ftaip - preSt PoSomS 



A Garden Idyll 47 

You thought, no doubt, the garden-scent 

Brings back some brief-winged bright sensation 
Of love that came and love that went, — 

Some fragrance of a lost flirtation, 
Born when the cuckoo changes song, 

Dead ere the apple's red is on it, 
That should have been an epic long, 

Yet scarcely served to fill a sonnet. 



Or else you thought, — the murmuring noon, 

He turns it to a lyric sweeter, 
With birds that gossip in the tune, 

And windy bough-swing in the metre ; 
Or else the zigzag fruit-tree arms 

Recall some dream of harp-prest bosoms, 
Round singing mouths, and chanted charms, 

And mediaeval orchard blossoms, — 



48 A Garden Idyll 

Quite a la mode. Alas for prose ! — 

My vagrant fancies only rambled 
Hack to the red-walled Rectory close, 

When first my graceless boyhood gamboled, 
Climbed on the dial, teased the fish, 

And chased the kitten round the beeches, 
Till widening instincts made me wish 

For certain slowly-ripening peaches. 



Three peaches. Not the Graces three 

Had more equality of beauty : 
1 would not look, yet went to see ; 

I wrestled with Desire and Duty ; 
I felt the pangs of those who feel 

The Laws of Property beset them ; 
The conflict made my reason reel, 

And, half-abstractedly, 1 ate them ; — 




dfty c&for and ''Hcfacsppno motfie'i 



A Garden Idyll 49 

( )r Two of them. Forthwith Despair — 

More keen that one of these was rotten — 
Moved me to seek some forest lair 

Where I might hide and dwell forgotten, 
Attired in skins, by berries stained, 

Absolved from brushes and ablution ; — 
But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained, 

Fate gave me up to execution. 



I saw it all but now. The grin 

That gnarled old Gardener Sandy's features ; 
My father, scholar-like and thin, 

Unroused, the tenderest of creatures ; 
I saw — ah me — I saw again 

My dear and deprecating mother ; 
And then, remembering the cane, 

Regretted— that Td left the Other. 

D 



A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO 




£/bu V<? reading yree.(^ 




'D " read " three hours. Both notes and text 

Were fast a mist becoming ; 
In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, 

And filled the room with humming, 



Then out. The casement's leafage sways, 

And, parted light, discloses 
Miss Di., with hat and book, — a maze 



Of muslin mixed with roses. 

53 



54 A Dialogue from Plato 

" You're reading Greek ? " "I am — and you ? ' 
" O, mine's a mere romancer ! " 

" So Plato is." " Then read him— do ; 
And I'll read mine in answer." 

I read. " My Plato (Plato, too,— 
That wisdom thus should harden !) 

Declares ' blue eyes look doubly blue 
Beneath a Dolly Varden.' " 

She smiled. " My book in turn avers 

(No author's name is stated) 
That sometimes those Philosophers 

Are sadly mis-translated." 

" But hear, — the next's in stronger style : 

The Cynic School asserted 
That two red lips which part and smile 

May not be controverted ! " 







yj^. 



* j"<\ 



^//Q J^u?f 'J JcarcO <^5S^^ni\^C 



A Dialogue from Plato 55 

She smiled once more — " My book, I find, 

Observes some modern doctors 
Would make the Cynics out a kind 

Of album verse concoctors." 

Then I — " Why not ? ' Ephesian law, 

No less than time's tradition, 
Enjoined fair speech on all who saw 

Diana's apparition.'" 

She blushed — this time. " If Plato's page 

No wiser precept teaches, 
Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage, 

And walk to Burnham-beeches." 

"Agreed," I said. "For Socrates 

(I find he too is talking) 
Thinks Learning can't remain at ease 

While Beauty goes a-walking." 



56 A Dialogue from Plato 

She read no more. I leapt the sill : 
The sequel's scarce essential — 

Nay, more than this, I hold it still 
Profoundly confidential. 



DOROTHY 




!rrecf-C&r ( ^^ ^ ^ oSSi ^ ^crtf ' 




^ HE then must once have looked, as I 
Look now, across the level rye, — 
Past Church and Manor-house, and seen, 
As now I see, the village green, 
The bridge, and Walton's river — she 
Whose old-world name was " Dorothy." 

59 



60 Dorothy 

The swallows must have twittered, too, 
Above her head ; the roses blew 
Below, no doubt, — and, sure, the South 
Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth,- 
That wistful mouth, which comes to me 
Linked with her name of Dorothy. 



What was she like? I picture her 
Unmeet for uncouth worshipper ; — 
Soft, — pensive, — far too subtly graced 
To suit the blunt bucolic taste, 
Whose crude perception could but see 
" Ma'am Fine-airs " in " Miss Dorothy." 



How not ? She loved, may be, perfume, 
Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room ; — 
Perchance too candidly preferred 
" Clarissa " to a gossip's word ; — 




* cXnce :^°Q[ls ( I e ' s 



Dorothy 6 1 



And, for the rest, would seem to be 
Or proud, or dull — this Dorothy. 



Poor child ! — with heart the down-lined nest 

Of warmest instincts unconfest, 

Soft, callow things that vaguely felt 

The breeze caress, the sunlight melt, 

But yet, by some obscure decree 

Un winged from birth ;— poor Dorothy ! 



Not less I dream her mute desire 
To acred churl and booby squire, 
Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled 
At " twice-told tales " of foxes killed ; — 
Now trembling when slow tongues grew 

free 
'Twixt sport, and Port — and Dorothy ! 



62 Dorothy 

'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find 
Its evening landscape balmy-kind ; 
And here, where still her gentle name 
Lives on the old green glass, would frame 
Fond dreams of unfound harmony 
'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy ! 



l'envoi. 

These last I spoke. Then Florence said, 
Below me, — " Dreams ? Delusions, Fred ! " 
Next, with a pause, — she bent the while 
Over a rose, with roguish smile — 
"But how disgusted, sir, you'll be 
To hear /scrawled that ' Dorothy.' " 



POT POURRI 








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Vara rfcdf, ofays'' 



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kSV jeunesse savait .' 



1 



PLUNGE my hand among the leaves : 
(An alien touch but dust perceives, 
Nought else supposes ;) 
For me those fragrant ruins raise 
Clear memory of the vanished days 
When they were roses. 



"If youth but knew!" Ah, "if", in truth 
T can recall with what gay youth, 



To what light chorus, 

65 



o() Pot Pourri 

Unsobered yet by time or change, 
We roamed the many-gabled Grange. 
All life before us ; 



Braved the old dock tower's dust and damp 

To catch the dim Arthurian camp 
In misty distance ; 

Peered at the still rooms sacred stores, 

Or rapped at walls for sliding doors 

Of feigned existence. 



What need had we tor thoughts or cares! 
The hot sun parched the old parterres 

And " flowerful closes" ; 
We loused the rooks with rounds and glees, 

Played hide-and-seek behind the trees, — 

Then plucked these roses. 




'1 d.'u « !c(j/i <«;,<<; '.'-»i dU-ti 



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4 



Pot Pourri 67 

Louise was one- light, glib Louise, 
So freshly freed from school decrees 

You scarce could stop her ; 
And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised 
At fallen locks that scandalized 

Our dear " Miss Proper : " — 



Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness, 
Who wept— like Chaucer's Prioress, 

When Dash was smitten ; 
Who blushed before the mildest men, 
Yet waxed a very Corday when 

You teased her kitten. 



I loved them all. Bell first and best; 
Louise the next -for days of jest 
Or madcap masking ; 



68 Pot Pourri 

And Ruth, I thought, — why, failing these, 
When my High-Mightiness should please, 
She'd come for asking. 



Louise was grave when last we met ; 
Bell's beauty, like a sun, has set ; 

And Ruth, Heaven bless her, 
Ruth that I wooed, — and wooed in vain, 
Has gone where neither grief nor pain 

Can now distress her. 



THE SUNDIAL 



'•) * ■ ■ < 

; • „ 




-,-■■ I 

1 

■ 



■ • ■ - ■ ' ■ 

■■■: ••^■•■•< i 'tis.' ■ 

' - ' « »' 







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"O'liriiKHuH'iii . 




I 



f^lUHF" •ij'llsftpi.ll^''' 




IS an old dial, dark with many a stain ; 
In summer crowned with drifting orchard 
bloom, 

Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, 
And white in winter like a marble tomb ; 



And round about its gray, time-eaten brow 

Lean letters speak — a worn and shattered 



row : 



31 am a ■Sljauc : a &l)at>otoc too arte tf?ou : 



31 marfce the &ime : oapc, Gossip, Dost tljou jsoe? 

71 



y 2 The Sundial 

Here would the ringdoves linger, head to head ; 

And here the snail a silver course would run, 
Beating old Time ; and here the peacock spread 

His gold green glory, shutting out the sun. 

The tardy shade moved forward to the noon ; 

Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept, 
That swung a flower, and, smiling, hummed a tune,- 

Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt. 

O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed ; 

About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone; 
And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, 

Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone. 

She leaned upon the slab a little while, 

Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, 

Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, 

Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. 



The Stindial 73 

The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail , 
There came a second lady to the place, 

Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale — 
An inner beauty shining from her face. 

She, as if listless with a lonely love, 

Straying among the alleys with a book, — 

Herrick or Herbert,— watched the circling dove, 
And spied the tiny letter in the nook. 

Then, like to one who confirmation found 
Of some dread secret half-accounted true, — 

Who knew what hands and hearts the letter bound, 
And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two, 

She bent her fair young forehead on the stone ; 

The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head ; 
And 'twixt her taper-fingers pearled and shone 

The single tear that tcar-worn eyes will shed. 



74 The Sundial 

The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom ; 

There came a soldier gallant in her stead, 
Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, 

A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head ; 

Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, 
Scar-seamed a little, as the women love ; 

So kindly fronted that you marvelled how 

The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove ; 

Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun ; 

Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge ; 
And standing somewhat widely, like to one 

More used to " Boot and Saddle " than to cringe 

As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, 

Took out the note ; held it as one who feared 

The fragile thing he held would slip and fall ; 
Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard ; 




f.^CP 3 



1100" 






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N ' 



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ancl -re-Tea 



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The Sundial 75 

Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast , 
Laughed softly in a flattered happy way. 

Arranged the broidered baldrick on his chest 
And sauntered past, singing a roundelay 



The shade crept forward through the dying glow ; 

There came no more nor dame nor cavalier ; 
But for a little time the brass will show 

A small gray spot — the record of a tear. 



CUPID'S ALLEY 




tfiCah ancf/oco^ ancfyounp ai^d ofc( 



?muL 







^ o'Korafity. 




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rv- 



(7, Love s but a dance, 

Where Time plays the fiddle I 
See the couples advance, — 
0, Love's but a dance / 
A whisper, a glance \ — 

" Shall we twirl dow7i the middle?*' 
O, Lovers but a dance, 

Where lime plays the fiddle / 



T runs (so saith my Chronicler) 

Across a smoky City ■ — 
A Babel filled with buzz and whirr, 

Huge, gloomy, black and gritty ; 
Dark-louring looks the hill-side near, 

Dark-yawning looks the valley, — 
But here 'tis always fresh and clear. 



For here — is "Cupid's Alley." 



79 



8o Cupid 's Alley 

And, from an Arbour cool and green. 

With aspect down the middle, 
An ancient Fiddler, gray and lean, 

Scrapes on an ancient fiddle ; 
Alert he seems, but aged enow 

To punt the Stygian galley ; — 
With wisp of forelock on his brow, 

He plays — in " Cupid's Alley." 



All day he plays, — a single tune ! — 

But. by the oddest chances, 
Gavotte, or Brawl, or Rigadoon, 

It suits all kinds of dances ; 
My Lord may walk a pas de Cour 

To Jenny's pas de Chalet ; — 
The folks who ne'er have danced before, 

Can dance— in "Cupid's Alley." 



Cupids Alley Si 

And here, for ages yet untold, 

Long, long before my ditty, 
Came high and low, and young and old, 

From out the crowded City ; 
And still to-day they come, they go, 

And just as fancies tally, 
They foot it quick, they foot it slow, 

All day— in " Cupid's Alley." 



Strange dance ! Tis free to Rank and Rags ; 

Here no distinction flatters, 
Here Riches shakes its money-bags, 

And Poverty its tatters ; 
Church, Army, Navy, Physic, Law ; — 

Maid, Mistress, Master, Valet; 
Long locks, gray hairs, bald heads, and a', — 

They bob— in "Cupid's Alley." 



82 Cupid's Alley 

Strange pairs ! To laughing, fresh Fifteen 

Here capers Prudence thrifty; 
Here Prodigal leads down the green 

A blushing Maid of fifty ; 
Some treat it as a serious thing, 

And some but shilly-shally ; 
And some have danced without the ring 

(Ah me !)— in "Cupid's Alley." 



And sometimes one to one will dance, 

And think of one behind her ; 
And one by one will stand, perchance, 

Yet look all ways to find her ; 
Some seek a partner with a sigh, 

Some win him with a sally ; 
And some, they know not how nor why, 

Strange fate !— of " Cupid's Alley." 










Wmfm 'iiC 




cfrom off RU fecit sfiaCT 



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Cupid's Alley 83 

And some will dance an age or so 

Who came for half a minute ; 
And some, who like the game, will go 

Before they well begin it ; 
And some will vow they're " danced to death," 

Who (somehow) always rally; 
Strange cures are wrought (mine author saith), 

Strange cures ! — in " Cupid's Alley." 



It may be one will dance to-day, 

And dance no more to-morrow ; 
It may be one will steal away 

And nurse a life-long sorrow ; 
What then ? The rest advance, evade, 

Unite, dispart, and dally, 
Re-set, coquet, and gallopade, 

Not less— in "Cupid's Alley." 



84 Cupid's Alley 

For till that City's wheel-work vast 

And shuddering beams shall crumble ;- 
And till that Fiddler lean at last 

From off his seat shall tumble; — 
Till then (the Civic records say), 

This quaint, fantastic ballet 
Of Go and Stay, of Yea and Nay, 

Must last-in "Cupid's Alley." 



LOVE IN WINTER 




J3M$fif~eye<{ 'Qeffc 




r} ETWEEN the berried holly-bush 

The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush 
" Which way did bright-eyed Bella go ? 
Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow, — 
Are those her daintv tracks I see, 
That wind beside the shrubbery?" 



The Throstle pecked the berries still. 
" No need for looking, Yellow-bill : 
Young Frank was there an hour ago, 
Half frozen, waiting in the snow ; 
His callow beard was white with rime, 
'Tchuck. — 'tis a merrv pairing-time '. " 



88 Love in Winter 

" What would you ? " twittered in the Wren ; 
" These are the reckless ways of men. 
I watched them bill and coo as though 
They thought the sign of Spring was snow ; 
If men but timed their loves as we, 
'Twould save this inconsistency." 



"Nay, Gossip," chirped the Robin, "nay; 
I like their unreflective way. 
Besides, I heard enough to show 
Their love is proof against the snow : — 
1 Why wait,' he said, ' why wait for May, 
When love can warm a winter's day ? ' " 




^yl/aitiny en tfce .s?i 



OIaT 



THE CURB'S PROGRESS 



^1 



-• 




mm 







Ghe Cur^s procprejrT 




M 



ONSIEUR the Cure down the street 
Comes with his kind old face, — 



With his coat worn bare, and his strao-orlins hair 
And his green umbrella-case. 



You may see him pass by the little " Grande 
Place," 
And the tiny "Hotel de Ville" ; 
He smiles as he goes, to the JZeuriste Rose, 

And the pompier Theophile. 

91 



92 The Curd's Progress 

He turns, as a rule, through the " Marche" cool, 

Where the noisy fish-wives call ; 
And his compliment pays to the "belle Tlterese" 

As she knits in her dusky stall. 

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, 

And Toto, the locksmith's niece, 
Has jubilant hopes, for the Cure gropes 

In his tails for a pain d'epice. 

There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit, 

Who is said to be heterodox, 
That will ended be with a " Mafoi, out/" 

And a pinch from the Cure's box. 

There is also a word that no one heard 

To the furrier's daughter Lou. ; 
And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red, 

And a " Bon Dieu garde Afsieu /" 



The Cute"s Progress 9 

But a grander way for the Sous-Prcjct, 

And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne ; 
And a mock " off-hat " to the Notary's cat, 

And a nod to the Sacristan : — 



n 



For ever through life the Cure goes 
With a smile on his kind old face — 

With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, 
And his green umbrella-case. 



AT THE CONVENT GATE 



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w 



ISTARIA blossoms trail 
and fall 



Above the length of barrier wall ; 

And softly, now and then, 
The shy, staid-breasted doves 

will flit 
From roof to gateway-top, and sit 

And watch the ways of men. 



The gate's ajar. If one might peep ! 
Ah, what a haunt of rest and sleep 



The shadowy garden seems 

07 



9S At the Convent Gate 

And note how dimly to and fro 
The grave, gray-hooded Sisters go 



ts^j 



Like figures seen in dreams. 



Look, there is one that tells her beads; 
And yonder one apart that reads 

A tiny missal's page : 
And see, beside the well, the two 
That, kneeling, strive to lure anew 

The magpie to its cage ! 



Not beautiful — not all ! But each 
With that mild grace, outlying speech, 

Which comes of even mood ; — 
The Veil unseen that women wear 
With heart-whole thought, and quiet care, 

And hope of higher good. 



At the Convent Gate 99 

"A placid life— a peaceful life ! 

What need to these the name of Wife? 

What gentler task (I said)— 
What worthier— e'en your arts among— 
Than tend the sick, and teach the young, 

And give the hungry bread ? " 



" No worthier task ! " re-echoes She, 
Who (closelier clinging) turns with me 

To face the road again : 
—And yet, in that warm heart of hers, 
She means the doves', for she prefers 

To "watch the ways of men." 



> j j 



THE MISOGYNIST 




Tfoi fliT was crfwciyi wo?'f>e<panv 








\ A /HEN first he sought our haunts, he wore 
His locks in Hamlet style; 
His brow with thought was "sicklied 



o'er,'' 



We rarely saw him smile ; 
And, e'en when none were looking on, 
His air was always woe-begone. 



He kept, I think, his bosom bare 



To imitate Jean Paul ; 

103 



ic>4 The Misogynist 

His solitary topics were 

^Esthetics, Fate, and Soul ; — 
Although at times, but not for lone 



He bowed his Intellect to sons:. 



He served, he said, a Muse of Tears : 

I know his verses breathed 
A fine funereal air of biers, 

And objects cypress-wreathed ;— 
Indeed, his tried acquaintance fled 
An ode he named "The Sheeted Dead." 



In these light moods, I call to mind, 

He darkly would allude 
To some dread sorrow undefined, — 

Some passion unsubdued ; 



The Misogynist 105 

Then break into a ghastly laugh, 
And talk of Keats his epitaph. 



He railed at women's faith as Cant ; 

We thought him grandest when 
He named them Siren-shapes that "chant 

On blanching bones of Men ; " — 
Alas, not e'en the great go free 
From that insidious minstrelsy ! 



His lot, he oft would gravely urge, 
Lay on a lone Rock where 

Around Time-beaten bases surge 
The Billows of Despair. 

We dreamed it true. We never knew 

What gentler ears he told it to. 



106 The Misogynist 

We, bound with him in common care, 

One-minded, celibate, 
Resolved to Thought and Diet spare 

Our lives to dedicate ; — 
We, truly, in no common sense, 
Deserved his closest confidence ! 



But soon, and yet, though soon, too late, 
We, sorrowing, sighed to find 

A gradual softness enervate 
That all superior mind, 

Until, — in full assembly met, 

lb' dared to speak of Etiquette. 



The verse that we severe had known, 

Assumed a wanton air, — 
A fond effeminate monotone 

Of eyebrows, lips, and hair; 







rw.mtf~him w£ ^rouin 6 to 



The Misogynist 107 



Not rjOos stirred him now or rots, 



He read "The Angel in the House!" 



Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff, 

Grew ludicrously sore 
If we but named a photograph 

We found him simpering o'er ; 
Or told how in his chambers lurked 
A watch-guard intricately worked. 



Then worse again. He tried to dress ; 

He trimmed his tragic mane ; 
Announced at length (to our distress) 

He had not " lived in vain " ; — 
Thenceforth his one prevailing mood 
Became a base beatitude. 



toS The Misogynist 

And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soul ! 

We nut him last, grown stout, 
II is throat with wedlock's triple roll, 

f< All wool" — enwound about ; 
His very hat had changed its brim ; — 
Our course was clear, we p.anisiiei) him ! 






A VIRTUOSO 







Cv i ittuodo, 




B 



E seated, pray. "A grave appeal'"? 

The sufferers by the war, of course ; 
Ah, what a sight for us who feel. — 

This monstrous mclodrame of Force ! 
We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know, 

On whom its heaviest burden falls ; 

Collections shattered at a blow, 

Museums turned to hospitals ! 
in 



ii2 A Virtuoso 

"And worse," you say; "the wide distress '" 

Alas, 'tis true distress exists, 
Though, let me add, our worthy Press 

Have no mean skill as colourists ; — 
Speaking of colour, next your seat 

There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand ; 
Some Moscow fancy, incomplete, 

Yet not indifferently planned ; 



Note specially the gray old Guard, 

Who tears his tattered coat to wrap 
A closer bandage round the scarred 

And frozen comrade in his lap ; — - 
But, as regards the present war, — 

Now don't you think our pride of pence 
Goes — may I say it? — somewhat far 

For objects of benevolence ? 



A Virtuoso 113 



You hesitate. For my part, I — 

Though ranking Paris next to Rome, 
/Esthetically — still reply 

That "Charity begins at Home." 
The words remind me. Did you catch 

My so-named " Hunt " ? The girl's a gem ; 
And look how those lean rascals snatch 

The pile of scraps she brings to them ! 



"But your appeal's for home," — you say, — 

For home, and English poor ! Indeed ! 
I thought Philanthropy to-day 

Was blind to mere domestic need — 
However sore — Yet though one grants 

That home should have the foremost claims, 
At least these Continental wants 

Assume intelligible names ; 

H 



ii4 A I v'tuoso 

While here with us — Ah ! who could hope 

To verify the varied pleas, 
Or from his private means to cope 

With all our shrill necessities ! 
Impossible ! One might as well 

Attempt comparison of creeds ; 
Or fill that huge Malayan shell 

With these half-dozen Indian beads. 



Moreover, add that every one 

So well exalts his pet distress, 
'Tis — Give to all, or give to none, 

If you'd avoid invidiousness. 
Your case, I feel, is sad as A.'s, 

The same applies to B.'s and C.'s; 
By my selection I should raise 

An alphabet of rivalries : 



A Virtuoso 1 1 5 

And life is short, — I see you look 

At yonder dish, a priceless bit ; 
You'll find it etched in Jacquemart's book, 

They say that Raphael painted it ; — 
And life is short, you understand ; 

So, if I only hold you out 
An open though an empty hand, 

Why, you'll forgive me, I've no doubt. 



Nay, do not rise. You seem amused ; 

One can but be consistent, Sir ! 
'Twas on these grounds I just refused 

Some gushing lady-almoner, — 
Believe me, on these very grounds. 

Good-bye, then. Ah, a rarity ! 
That cost me quite three hundred pounds, — 

That Diirer figure, — "Charity." 



NOTES 



NOTES 

Note i, Page i. 

"An Incident in the Life of Francois Boucher" 

See Boucher, by Arsene Houssaye, Galerie du XVI lie Sikle 
{Cinquihne Se'rie), and Charles Blanc, Histoire des Peintres de 
tons les Ecoles. 

Note 2, Page i. 

" The scene, a wood." 

The picture referred to is Le I anier Mysterieux by F. Boucher ; 
engraved by R. Gaillard. 

Note 3, Page 3. 
" And fur afield were sun-baked savage creatures. " 
See Les Caracteres de La Bruyere, De Vhomme. 

Note 4, Page 4. 
" Whose greatest grace was jupes a la Camargo." 

" C'ctait le beau temps oh Camargo trouvait ses jupes trop longues 

pour danser la gargouillade.'' — Arsene Houssaye. 

ng 



120 Notes 

Note 5, Page 5. 

" The grass he called ' too green? " 

"77 trouvait la nature trop verte et mal eclairee. Et son ami 
Lancret, le peintre ties salons a la mode, lui ripondait: ( Je suis 
de votre sentiment, la nature manque d'Jiarmonie et de seduc- 
tion' " — Charles Blanc. 



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